


Glory Seekers

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:12:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will the search for glory lead to the Colonel's death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glory Seekers

Glory Seekers  
By JJJunky

 

Bursts from the ME109's 20mm cannons struck the fighter amidships. Smoke poured from the right engine, leaving a trail as the P-51 spun out of control. Its initial speed and the angle of its descent kept it within visual range of the bombers it had protected.

In the lead B-17, Gallagher had the best view of the doomed craft. Pounding a fist against his thigh, he quietly pleaded, "Jump, Major, jump!"

The fighter slammed into the ground. A ball of fire rose high into the sky before collapsing upon itself. All that was left to mark its existence was a smoky trail dissipating in the wind.

The B-17's flew on, leaving the wreckage behind. There was no time to mourn the fallen pilot. Ahead, black puffs of smoke denoted the edge of the flak field. The remaining 51's of the 511th Fighter Squadron broke off and turned for home, their gas tanks more than half-empty. If all went according to plan, the 614th Fighter Squadron would rendezvous with the Bomb Group on the other side of the flak bed. Rarely, Gallagher knew, did a mission go according to plan. Just in the few hours since they had left England, the squadron could have been reassigned to another operation, or they could be socked in by weather. Joe had learned to expect the unexpected.

What he hadn't learned was how to deal with the death of a friend. In the days when the 511th had been directly under his command, he'd grown to like and respect Deke Marriott. The major had been the first to break away from the original commander's influence. He'd listened and embraced the concept of teamwork. Colonel Troper's inability to do so had lost him his command and the respect of his men. Eventually, it had caused him to be reassigned to a ground position.

The Lily shook as flak exploded around her. Gallagher barely noticed. He felt numb. He wasn't sure why. So many had died already in this war. Some before he'd even been able to associate the name with a face. So why did this one hurt so much? Why did he suddenly want to cry?

"Coming up on the IP, Skipper," the bombardier called.

Torn from his pain, Gallagher released the yellow-yellow flares warning the group that it was time to turn on to the target. Twenty miles of flak and fear followed before he was finally able to press the mike to his throat. "PDI is centered, Mike. She's all yours."

Dropping his hands, Gallagher stared straight ahead. He could see the German fighters waiting for them outside the flak bed. Of their own escort, there was no sign.

"Bombs away."

The Lily rose as two and a half tons of steel and high explosive was released. Quickly regaining control, Gallagher ordered, "Somebody watch for the strike."

Bereft of her load, the B-17 surged upward, increasing her speed. Gallagher cut back on the power. For their own safety and that of the other bombers, he couldn't afford to get too far ahead. To combat the FW190's that were waiting for them, they'd have to re-form into their box formation before leaving the flak.

"We missed the target, Skipper." The tail gunner's forlorn cry echoed down the line. "We missed it by a country mile."

Gallagher closed his eyes as the pain returned, increasing in intensity. He'd already lost a B-17 and a P-51. Eleven men dead so they could bomb a cornfield. Ahead lay more death and destruction. Fighting the urge to say cocooned in his own little world, Joe forced his eyes open. He had a mission to complete.

 

Major Harvey Stovall stood on top of the control tower fighting the wind -- and counting. Raising binoculars to his eyes, he could barely make out the distinctive shape of two more B-17's. That brought the total to fourteen. Four short of the complement that had taken off early that morning. Forty men who wouldn't be returning.

Glancing down at his tally sheet, Harvey saw that one of the planes was Goin' Home. Her pilot had been John Donovan, the group's Deputy Commander. To himself, Stovall admitted that he hadn't liked Donovan much. The young man was too arrogant. Too quick to let someone else so his job -- usually Gallagher. Still, he would be missed.

A B-17 passed overhead, its number three engine feathered. Smoke streamed from its number two. Harvey gripped his clipboard s tight, his knuckles turned white. He watched anxiously as the _Piccadilly Lily's_ moved into position to land. Despite the plane's obvious distress, she was one of the last to be brought down. She hadn't fired a red flare. That, at least, was something to be grateful for. No one had been wounded.

As the huge aircraft touched down, Stovall climbed down the stairs and crossed to his jeep. Turning on the engine, he shifted into first. Starting with a jerk, he drove as fast as it was safe to the _Lily's_ hardstand. Near the edge of the tarmac, he slowed, coughing from the acrid smoke pouring over the aircraft's wing.

One by one, the mighty engines were shutdown. For several minutes silenced reigned over the field. The normal sounds returned slowly. Rising above them, Harvey could hear the cries of the wounded as they were carried from their planes to the waiting ambulances. He almost wished the deafening roar would return to drown out these examples of man's inhumanity to man.

Obviously exhausted, Sergeant Sandy Komansky swung down from the forward hatch. As soon as his feet touched solid ground, he turned to assist his commander. Gallagher looked more tired than Stovall had ever seen him. He moved like an old man. Without a word of greeting, he walked over to the jeep and climbed into the passenger seat. Putting his head back against the soft cushion, he closed his eyes.

Joining Komansky, Stovall whispered, "Another rough one?"

"Our fighter cover on the return leg was fifteen minutes late. We lost three aircraft," Komansky related, rubbing his face with his hands. "We lost another going in, plus Major Marriott."

"Any chutes?"

"There were a couple from _Goin' Home and Sunshine Girl_."

Harvey swallowed the lump in his throat before walking slowly toward the jeep and his waiting commander. As soon as the debriefing was complete, he would have to review the reports to discover who was confirmed dead and who could be classified as missing in action. The papers would then be forwarded through channels, until a telegram was sent to the next of kin. With every word he wrote, he was aware of the fact that he was destroying somebody's life: a wife, a mother, a father. When he'd first started this job, he'd thought it would get easier. To his relief, it hadn't.

Climbing behind the wheel of the jeep, Harvey switched the engine on and shifted into gear. He spared a glance for the gray faces of his passengers and wished he hadn't. Depression enveloped him like a cocoon. He knew it would be a long time before he would emerge.

 

The thin narrow beam of his headlights rested briefly on the door to the 511th's Officers' Club. Gallagher switched off the lights, then the engine. Resting his head against the steering wheel, he listened for the usual signs of revelry that followed a mission. But there was no raucous laughter, no singing, no indication at all the club was open. He knew why, and he knew it was up to him to try to restore a sense of normalcy to these men. They couldn't afford to brood over their loss. Digging deep into his soul, Gallagher looked for the energy to deliver the pep talk these boys -- these men -- needed. Just once, he allowed, it would be nice if somebody cared about what he needed.

Squaring his shoulders, he entered the club. Sad faces lifted at his entrance before returning to contemplate their drinks on the polished table tops. Knocking on the top of the bar, Gallagher said, "A round of drinks on me, Corporal."

While he waited for each man to receive his order, Gallagher studied the pilots. Sadness was most prevalent on the faces of the seasoned veterans, fear on the newer recruits. While he understood each of the emotions, Joe knew he couldn't let the feelings fester. Either one could kill an inattentive pilot.

Glasses in hand, the men looked expectantly at their Skipper. Raising his tumbler, Gallagher toasted, "To Major Marriott, a helluva fighter pilot and a helluva man."

"To Major Marriott," each man quietly repeated.

The glasses were emptied in a single swallow. A few coughs identified those who rarely indulged in liquor. As Gallagher had hoped, the simple tribute -- and the alcohol -- released previously restrained tongues. Stories of the major's exploits flew across the room. Laughter no longer seemed sacrilegious as the older pilots told the new recruits some of the more humorous tales.

Gallagher sighed. Major Marriott's memory would now bring joy rather than sorrow. In this way, he'd live on in the men he had flown beside, remembered with fondness and sharing.

Setting his glass on the bar, Joe walked toward the exit, exchanging handshakes and smiles with those he passed. He was only a few steps from escape when the door swung open with a force that slammed it against the wall. A cool breeze entered first, followed by the squadron's original commander, Colonel Troper. From the unsteadiness of his stance, it was clear he'd already had few too many drinks.

"Troper here," he sing-songed, flourishing his arms, "ready to save the day."

The chatter stopped as all eyes turned on the drunken officer. Their embarrassed glances quickly dropped as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

 

Gallagher silently cursed, aware that with a few words Troper had undone all his hard work. In an effort to restore the previous camaraderie, Joe suggested, "Why don't we go outside and talk, Trop?"

"Whatever you got to say to me, Colonel, sir, you can say in front of my boys." Troper swung an arm out indicating the fighter pilots. "Now that the traitor is gone, it's only a matter of time before I get my command back."

Gallagher's stomach churned as he realized Troper had just enough pull with the brass to make his threat a reality. Carefully keeping his fear from showing, Joe defended his dead friend. "Just because Major Marriott was a team player, it doesn't mean he was a traitor. He did a good job leading the 511th. The men who served under him can be proud of their accomplishments."

"Bullshit," Troper swore. "The most kills they had on a single mission was four."

"And the most bombers we lost under their protection were two," Gallagher countered. "My men figure their chance of survival has risen fifty percent since the 51's started flying cover for us. These pilots know their job and they do it well, Colonel. They know that if they go looking for a dogfight, they leave the bombers vulnerable. No one with your attitude or in your condition deserves to command this unit."

"Oh, yeah," Troper staggered as he stood in front of his adversary, hands planted on his hips indicating his defiance.

Realizing no amount of rationalization would penetrate the inebriated man's senses, Gallagher waved a hand at the bartender. "Call the MP's, I want two men to escort Colonel Troper off the base."

"You'll be sorry, Gallagher," Troper growled, pushing his face close to his enemy's. "Mark my words."

 

General Britt viewed the stack of files with dismay. The strike that had cost him two commanders had cost the Germans nothing. He had two key positions to fill. Slouching in his chair, he stared at the pile wishing someone else could make the life and death decisions for a change. It was the hardest part of his job, the only part he didn't relish.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his aide trying to gain his attention. "What is it, Rand?"

"Colonel Gallagher would like to see you, sir," the young man announced.

Eyeing the files, Britt hesitated before finally agreeing. "Send him in."

To those who knew him, it was obvious Gallagher had lost some of the spark that characterized him. Striding forward, he saluted. "Thank you for seeing me, General."

Returning the salute with his usual nonchalance, Britt frowned. He couldn't afford to have his best Group Commander under the weather. Especially since he'd yet to appoint that Group a new Deputy Commander. "What can I do for you, Joe?"

"I was wondering if you'd chosen a new C.O. for the 511th, sir?" Gallagher asked, removing his hand and nervously fingering the brim.

Indicating with a wave of his hand the folders sitting on the desk in front of him, Britt observed, "That's my homework tonight."

"Oh." Gallagher's eyes roved aimlessly around the room.

Curious, Britt pointed to the empty chair in front of his desk. "Sit down and tell me what's bothering you."

Instead of relaxing as his exhausted body clearly needed, Gallagher paced. It was a few minutes before he found the courage to present his question. "Sir, is Colonel Troper being considered for the position?"

Britt contemplated the younger man for a moment before replying, "What if he is?"

"I don't believe he's fit to command, sir."

"The man assures me he's reformed."

Gallagher stopped pacing and faced his superior. "He showed up drunk at the Officer's Club tonight calling Major Marriott a traitor."

"What did you do?" Britt softly demanded, a glint in his eye.

"I had him escorted off the base and left instructions that he wasn't to be admitted again without my specific orders."

"That was a little dangerous, wasn't it? Trop still has friends in high places."

"The man was falling down drunk," Gallagher indignantly retorted. "He doesn't belong in command."

"I agree."

"Sir?"

"I received a few calls," Britt confessed, "from a couple of generals requesting that I consider giving Trop his command back."

"And?" Gallagher prompted, hope and fear alternately reflecting his feelings.

"I considered it," conceded Britt, "then I had my aide put his folder to the file cabinet."

Gallagher's sigh of relief was clearly audible. "Thank you, sir."

"I didn't do it for you, Joe," Britt warned. "You may not like the man I eventually choose any better than you like Troper."

Running his hand through his hair, Gallagher said, "I don't care if I like him or not. My only concern is that he does his job and protect my bombers."

"I just wanted to be sure we understood each other," Britt gently admonished. Sitting forward, he took the top folder off the pile. "Now get out of here. I've got work to do."

 

White clouds covered the earth as far as the eye could see. They looked soft and fluffy -- and harmless. Gallagher knew better. German fighters could be hiding within their protection ready to pounce on the group without warning.

Gallagher's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the specters of death that waited for them. The 38's had been fogged in, unable to make their rendezvous. The 511th wasn't due to arrive for another thirty minutes. Gallagher knew it would be a long half hour.

"Right waist to pilot, fighter three o'clock high."

"Get up in your turret, Sandy," Gallagher ordered, leaning forward so he could see past his co-pilot in the direction the gunner had indicated. As the small plane drew closer, he recognized the shape. Pressing the mike to his throat, he called, "Hold your fire; it's a P-51."

"What's it doing all by itself this far from home?" Komansky demanded, returning to his position between the pilots.

"I don't know, but I'm glad to see him," Gallagher confessed. "Even one fighter is better than none."

The airplane flew recklessly through the group, making Gallagher revise his opinion. Switching channels, he angrily broke radio silence. "Ramrod to unidentified fighter, stop showboating and take a position above the high squadron."

"I don't think so, Colonel, sir."

"Troper," Gallagher whispered, immediately recognizing the arrogant voice.

This time when the fighter flew past the _Piccadilly Lily_ , it released a stream of 50mm shells. Smoke billowed out of the number four engine as oil streamed down the wing.

"Feather four," cried Gallagher, working to control the aircraft.

The P-51 flew figure eights in front of the formation, just out of range of its fifty caliber guns. His voice triumphant rather than contrite, Troper shouted, "Remember the first mission I was assigned to you, Colonel? You shot down one of my men. Turnabout is fair play. Don't you think?"

Realizing he couldn't keep his damaged aircraft in position without endangering the other bombers, Gallagher broadcast, "Ramrod to Blue Leader, I've lost one engine with another at half power. We'll have to abort, take over."

"Roger, Ramrod," a static garbled voice accepted. "Will you be all right, Colonel?"

Though he appreciated the concern, Gallagher snapped, "Your only consideration, Blue Leader, is the target."

"Acknowledged, Ramrod. Good luck."

Pushing the steering column forward, Gallagher let the plane drop below the rest of the formation before making a slow turn back to base. He knew without looking that the 51 was following.

"You can run, but you can't hide," Toper's mocking tone filled the airwaves.

Regret and pain over the order he was about to give visible on his face, Gallagher said, "Get up in your turret, Sandy."

"You want me to fire on one of our own guys?" Komansky gasped.

"It's him or us," Gallagher angrily pointed out. "I can't risk the lives of ten men for one."

"Yes, sir." Komansky reluctantly returned to his guns.

Pressing the mike to his throat, Gallagher called, "Ramrod to Little Brother, break off your attack or we'll be forced to defend ourselves."

"If you're trying to scare me, Colonel, sir," Troper giggled, "you're not doing a very good job. Do you really think those children of yours have the guts to shoot down one of their own?"

"The survival instinct is stronger than regret or revenge," warned Gallagher, careful to keep one eye on his instruments and the other on the fighter. "You've already shown them a man doesn't have to wear a German uniform to be their enemy."

When there was no smart remark or snide reply to his comments, Gallagher dared to hope that Troper had finally come to his senses. Joe was tired of fighting the humans that surrounded him and the demons that raged inside him.

"He's coming in, Colonel," Komansky warned.

This time, Troper headed straight for the nose in an obvious game of chicken. Gallagher wearily grinned. "I've played this game before, Trop. You won't win." Though the palms of his hands were sweating, Gallagher continued to unrelentingly close the gap. He knew it was the only chance they'd have to beat the faster, quicker fighter.

"Pull up, Colonel," his young co-pilot begged, trying to take control of the plane.

"Get your hands off that yoke, Lieutenant," ordered Gallagher.

"You're going to kill us!"

Switching his radio back to intercom, Gallagher called his bombardier. "Mike, get up here and escort Lieutenant Fry to the radio room."

"If I leave, you'll kill us all," Fry protested, shaking off attempts to unhook his seat belt.

"You can't change anything if you stay," Gallagher gently soothed the green pilot. "Go back to the radio room. You'll feel safer."

Tears filled the boy's pale blue eyes as he calmed down and reluctantly obeyed is superior. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Fry crawled from the cockpit.

The boy already forgotten, Gallagher pressed the mike to his throat. "It'll be just like we did it before, Sandy. If he pulls up, he's all yours."

"Roger, Colonel."

"If he dives, Riley," Gallagher warned his ball turret gunner, "he's yours."

"Right, Skipper."

Gallagher could hear the apprehension in their voices, but he could also hear the determination that gave them the courage to stay at their positions. They were a good crew. He hoped he'd get to tell them so.

Flying at great speeds, the two aircraft closed quickly. Less than a mile separated them when Troper opened fire.

Gallagher ducked as a stream of lead vented the cockpit to the biting wind. His left arm stung telling him that at least one bullet had found its mark. As he viewed the destruction of the instrument panel, he felt lucky to be alive.

The few seconds it had taken to destroy the cockpit had brought the two planes dangerously close. Just when it appeared as though neither pilot would "chicken out," Troper pulled up, exposing his vulnerable belly to Komansky's 50mm shells.

Smoke poured from the 51's exhaust. The left wing dropped, turning the small aircraft away from the B-17 and toward the ground. Fire licked along the fuselage.

Pain from the wound in his arm made Gallagher wince as he switched his radio. "Jump, Trop, jump!"

"Why?" Troper's agonized voice demanded. "So you won't feel guilty? Don't you see, Colonel, sir? This way I win. If I jump, you win. I can't let that happen."

Smoke had almost engulfed the fighter. Only the fires kept it visible to the naked eye. A small explosion in the tail was followed by a larger one that tore the ship apart. Gallagher continued to search for a parachute long after the fireball had slammed into the ground.

 

Though it was difficult, Stovall forced himself to concentrate on the paperwork before him. Waiting and worrying made the clock tick slower. In his experience, work was the only remedy in his passive participation in a mission. It would be at least another five hours before the group was due to return. Then he would climb to the top of the control tower to begin his vigil. 

The phone rang, providing him with a welcome distraction. Lifting the receiver, he said, "Major Stovall."

"This is the tower," a breathless voice replied, "the colonel's plane is comin' in. It looks pretty shot up."

"I'm on my way."

Grabbing his jacket and hat, Harvey ran to his jeep. As he put it into gear, he wondered why the _Lily_ was returning without the rest of the group. If they'd been hit by fighters so soon and forced to drop out of formation, the lone bomber would've been easy prey. Experience and logic told Harvey she would've been shot out of the sky. 

By the time he reached the airfield, the plane had landed and was taxing to her hardstand. The last vestiges of a red flare were dissipating in the wind.

Harvey's hand shook as he shifted into a high gear and raced down the runway in the wake of an ambulance. Even at this distance, he could see the extensive damage sustained by the cockpit and the forward section. As he screeched to a stop, a body was being handed through the left waist gunner's position to waiting hands below. Stovall's experienced eye told him the man was dead. Bullets had stitched a swath across Lieutenant Blakely's chest. The navigator had probably died before he even knew he'd been hit.

The forward hatch swung open. Harvey breathlessly stepped from the jeep, his eyes focused on the emerging figure. As usual, Komansky appeared first. At least he appeared to be uninjured. When he turned to assist his commanding officer, it was obvious the support was necessary. Stuffing spilled from a rent in the left sleeve of Gallagher's leather coat. A makeshift bandage circling his upper arm was stained with blood. Stovall reached his friend only steps ahead of the doctor. "What happened, Joe?"

"Explanations can wait," Kaiser admonished, inspecting the wound. "Right now, this man needs medical attention."

"It's just a scratch, Doc," protested Gallagher, drawing in a breath as the doctor pulled the dirty bandage off.

"It's still bleeding, Doctor Gallagher, and could be infected." Kaiser tugged his patient toward the nearest ambulance.

Knowing from experience that it was better to go along with the diminutive physician than to fight him, Gallagher addressed Stovall with an urgency the major had never seen before. "Harvey, contact General Britt. Tell him I need to talk to him right away. Then I want you to confine my crew to their barracks. No one, I repeat, no one is to talk to them until after I've reported to General Britt."

"All right, Joe," Stovall unhappily agreed. As the ambulance pulled away with its high-ranking passenger, Harvey turned a troubled frown on Komansky. "What happened up there, Sandy?"

"Colonel Troper tried to shoot us down." 

When Komansky looked at his hands, Stovall was surprised to see they were shaking. He had never seen the sergeant this shook up.

"I got him before he could get us."

Shock held Stovall momentarily speechless as he watched the dejected young man walk toward the jeep. To be honest, even if he'd been able to respond, he wouldn't have known what to say. 

 

Gallagher laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes. He knew Doc Kaiser would be furious if he found out his patient was working instead of resting. But he felt his time could be more productively utilized writing requisitions than staring sightlessly as his bedroom ceiling. Rising to his feet, he crossed to the stove. Careful of his aching arm, he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Only his head visible through the partially open door, Stovall said, "General Britt just drove up."

"Thanks, Harvey." Grateful for the warning, Joe returned to his desk and stood ready to greet his superior.

"Are you all right, Joe?" Britt limped into the office with an energy that made one forget he had an artificial leg. "What happened up there today?"

As soon as his salute was returned, Joe sank onto his chair. His trembling legs were no longer capable of supporting him. Staring at the blotter on his desk, he fought to keep his voice steady as he related the details of the attack. In his own mind, he had committed murder when he ordered his gunners to open up on the fighter. Then and now, he felt he'd had no choice.

Britt didn't speak when the narrative ended. Instead, he crossed to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. Walking to the chair in front of the desk, he sat down. A tired sigh escaped his lips. "It's difficult to believe. I trust you, Joe," he hastily added. "It's just difficult to believe."

Biting his lip, Gallagher didn't look up. He felt guilty, just as Trop had predicted. He had hoped his superiors would understand that his options had been limited. Despite Gallagher's best efforts, a man had died. His navigator left behind a wife and a small son.

"Joe, I realize this is a chance for you to say 'I told you so' to all the brass who supported Troper," Britt softly admitted, lighting a cigarette, "but I'm afraid you'll have to get your revenge some other way. We can't afford to let the press get a hold of this story. Think what it would do to morale. Not just here, but in the States as well."

"Vindication is the last thing I'm after, General," Joe swiftly contradicted, raising his head and sitting forward in his seat. "Troper wasn't a bad person. He was lost. If someone had helped him find his way, all this might have been avoided. I'm as much to blame as anyone. I swept him aside, made him someone else's problem. He deserved better from me and from the Air Corps."

Stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette, Britt said, "Don't blame yourself, Joe. You're the only one who saw he needed help. That's probably what made Troper resent you."

"All I wanted him to do was understand the role of the P-51," defended Gallagher.

"He couldn't comprehend because he didn't want to." Britt rose to his feet. "There's no glory without the kill."

"Isn't it more important to save lives?"

"Some men have their own agenda. What's important to you isn't necessarily important to them."

"It's a helluva way to fight a war."

"Sometimes a man finds his internal battle is more pressing than the global one." Britt sighed, putting on his hat. "Get some sleep, Joe. You look like hell. I'll talk to you again tomorrow."

The sound of the general's cane thumping on the wood floor echoed in Joe's ears long after the man had disappeared. He yawned, wishing he could take his superior's advice. However, he had two people he needed to talk to before he could think about going to bed.

Carefully slipping his injured arm into the sleeve of his leather jacket, he shrugged into the light coat. It wouldn't be warm enough, but it would have to do until his flight jacket could be replaced. Turning off his work light, he grabbed his hat and walked into the anteroom that served as his ground exec's office. "Time to call it a day, Harvey."

"I'll be finished in a minute, Joe." Stovall pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"See that you are," Gallagher mockingly order. "Tired men make mistakes."

Stovall smiled. "Do you know that from experience?"

"Yeah, I do," Joe ruefully admitted. "Unfortunately, I have a feeling none of us will know what a full night's sleep is until the war's over."

"I think you're right," Stovall agreed with a tired sigh.

Realizing he wasn't convincing the older man to leave the work until morning, Gallagher said, "Goodnight, Harvey."

"Goodnight, Joe."

Pushing through the blackout curtains, Joe opened the door and stepped out into the cool night. He stopped for a minute to breathe in the cold, crisp air. It smelled of wet earth and gasoline. A cloud passed across the crescent moon. He didn't need its light to show him the way. There wasn't any section of this base he wasn't intimately familiar with.

Since the Officers' Club was closer, he made that his first stop. The room was almost empty -- except for the officer he was seeking. He sat alone at a corner table. A stack of empty glasses sat in front of him. As Gallagher watched, another was added to the growing pile.

"Bartender, another double," a slurred voice demanded.

The enlisted man ignored the request and turned his attention to Gallagher. "What'll you have, Colonel?"

"Evening, Ed," Joe cordially greeted the corporal. "I'll have a brandy and the double for Lt. Fry."

"Are you sure, sir? He's in pretty bad shape already."

"Then one more can't hurt."

As soon as the drinks had been poured, Joe commandeered a tray and carried them to the lonely young officer. "Good evening, Lieutenant, mind if I join you?"

Fry looked up at the question. Bloodshot eyes tried to focus on his visitor. "Are you sure you want to be seen with a coward?"

"You're not a coward, Lieutenant," Gallagher refuted, putting their drinks on the table and discarding the tray.

Finally realizing who had joined him, Fry tried to straighten up in his chair. The attempt failed. "I was scared up there today, sir," he bitterly confessed.

"So was I," Joe truthfully revealed. "So was everybody on that plane."

"Nobody else deserted their post."

"You left the cockpit under my orders."

"Because I chickened out," Fry noted, almost in tears.

Gallagher took a sip of his brandy. He savored the taste as he rolled it around the back of his tongue before swallowing. "Fear isn't always a bad thing, Lieutenant. Sometimes it keeps us alive. If you'd stayed, you'd probably be dead right now."

"I wish I was."

"Don't you ever say anything like that again," Gallagher growled, angrily striking the table with a clutched fist. I've seen too many young lives cut short in this war. Count yourself lucky not to be one of them."

A shaking finger circled the rim of his glass. Keeping his eyes averted, Fry asked, "How can I go back up there? I might chicken out again and endanger the crew."

"You're not a coward, Ron," Gallagher gently repeated. "If you were, you'd be looking for a way to get yourself grounded, not drowning your sorrow in liquor. This was your first mission. Reality hits everyone right between the eyes the first time."

"Even you, sir?"

"Especially me."

Despite the affirmation, the pale blue eyes gazed skeptically at their superior before a hand pushed the untouched drink away. "I think I've had enough."

"I agree." Gallagher nodded.

Hanging on to the table for support, Fry stood on unsteady legs. "I guess I better go sleep this off, sir."

"Sound plan," Joe agreed, rising to his feet to give the officer a hand. "I don't like my co-pilot reporting for duty with a hangover."

Fry almost fell as he swung around to look at the Toby mug on the mantel. Blurred vision couldn't focus on its face. "Are we on call for tomorrow, Colonel?"

"No," Gallagher reassured him, hastily grabbing a flaying arm. "We're standing down, lucky for you. My guess is it'll take you at least two days to recover from your bout with self-pity."

His face turning a sickly shade of green, Fry cautiously shook his head. "I think you're underestimating my capacity for alcohol, sir. I'll be fine by morning."

"Don't push yourself, Lieutenant. The war'll still be here next week."

Gallagher smiled as he handed his burden into the corporal's capable hands. He knew from experience that the boy would be spending the next few hours with his head in a bowl purging himself of most of what he'd ingested. Fry wasn't the only crewman to panic on his first mission and he wouldn't be the last. Those who learned to live with their fear were the lucky ones. The rest lived inside their own minds, prisoners of their own terror.

 

The large stack of folders had been whittled down to three. Britt opened each file and stared in turn at the photographs contained within. One face was long and lean with a scar above the right eye. The next was angular and dark, with an extended forehead that shadowed the almost black eyes. The last face had chubby cheeks with a hint of a dimple in the plump chin. One thing all the faces had in common was their youth.

Britt didn't bother to read the enclosed reports. He already knew them by heart. All three officers were of almost equal ability and rank. Which left his decision to instinct. Whoever he chose to command the 511th Fighter Squadron would be fighting an uphill battle. Major Marriott's death and Troper's subsequent attack had practically destroyed morale. It would take a special man with special abilities t turn things around.

Closing the two end folders, Britt placed them on the corner of his desk. He sighed and stared at the remaining photograph. The name alone would raise the spirits of his men. It was an important consideration. One that he realized was probably influencing him more than it should. He prayed he never would have occasion to regret his decision.

 

Having taken care of Lieutenant Fry, Gallagher went on to look for the other person he needed to see that evening. He crossed the tarmac to the repair hanger. He hadn't checked the NCO club or the barracks, he knew better. There was only one place Komansky would go to ease his pain -- his beloved Lily.

A repair crew swarmed around the huge bomber. The Plexiglas enclosing the cockpit and the nose had already been replaced. Two men straddled one of the huge engines, while another was precariously perched on a tall ladder.

His injured arm making it impossible for him to swing up into the plane through the forward hatch, Joe climbed a short ladder and entered through the waist gunner's window. Noise precluded conversation as he passed the surprised mechanics on his journey through the massive belly. When he reached the cockpit, he slipped into the left seat with a practiced ease. His arrival was ignored by the distracted occupant of the right seat. Part of the control console lay untouched on Komansky's lap. Unblinking eyes stared sightlessly out into the vast hangar.

His voice soft and understanding, Gallagher said, "Sandy?"

A sigh escaped the pursed lips as the eyes closed. "Yes, sir?"

"You didn't kill him." Gallagher's tone deepened taking on a note of command.

Komansky shook his head. "I pulled the trigger and shot him down."

"But you didn't kill him," Gallagher reiterated. "He killed himself."

Opening his eyes, Komansky stared at his superior. "That doesn't make any sense, sir."

"What would you call it when a lone fighter attacks a formation of B-17's?"

"Suicide," Komansky promptly replied.

"Exactly," Joe agreed. "he wanted to die and he wanted me to be the one to do the honors."

"I killed him, not you."

"After I ordered you to."

"That doesn't help, sir," confessed Komansky, leaning his head back against the seat.

"He gave you," Gallagher hastily corrected, "us, no choice, Sandy. Nine men have you to thank for their lives. Don't let your guilt diminish that accomplishment. As one of the nine, I'm glad to be alive."

Komansky let his gaze rest on his colonel as he softly admitted, "So am I."

Noticing the confidence returning to the sad eyes, Gallagher rose to his feet. "I think I'll call it a night. How about you, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir." Komansky slid the control panel back into place.

"Just don't forget to finish fixing that," Joe pleaded, pointing to the damaged panel.

"Don't worry, sir," Komansky assured him, patting the B-17's bulkhead. "She'll be as good as new."

With Komansky's help, Gallagher dropped from the forward hatch. As he led the way through the noisy hanger, he gave a tired sigh. Hopefully, this would be the last pep talk he'd have to give for a while. They were too emotionally draining.

 

The dim light of the early morning sun reflected off the silver bodies of the fortresses with a dull glow. The car crept down the muddy lane in deference to the men slowly making their way to the mess hall for breakfast. Britt surreptitiously studied the face of the major sitting next to him. It almost seemed too young for the task that had been set for him. You had to be more than a skillful pilot to command a fighter squadron. You had to be a diplomat when settling disputes between the men, and a counselor when the horrors of war threatened to engulf a sensitive soul.

Lost in his thoughts, Britt hadn't realized they'd reached the headquarters of the 918th Bomb Group until his door flew open making him jump. Quickly regaining his dignity, he climbed from the car and led the way into the small Quonset hut. Though it was early, he wasn't surprised to find Komansky and Stovall already at their desks working. "Good morning, Sergeant," Britt greeted the younger man before addressing his old friend. "Harvey, is Joe up yet?"

"He's been up for hours, General," Stovall said, reaching for his phone. "Shall I tell him you're here?"

"I'll tell him myself," Britt decided, heading for the office. "Thanks, Harvey."

Britt saw the curiosity and the faint hint of recognition on his friend's face, but he ignored it. Gallagher deserved to be the first to learn the new commander's identity. Knocking lightly, Britt entered before the order to do so could be given. He deliberately left the door open as he limped across the room to face the tired man sitting behind the desk.

The dark head rose, quickly followed by the body. Throwing a belated salute, Gallagher apologized, "I'm sorry, General, I wasn't expecting you."

"Don't blame Harvey," said Britt. "I wouldn't let him announce our arrival."

"Yes, sir." 

Britt saw the tension drain from Gallagher's weary body as he scrutinized the unfamiliar major who had followed Britt into the office. "I knew you were anxious, Joe." An understanding smile curved his lips." "I wanted you to be the first to meet the new commanding officer of the 511th Fighter Squadron. Colonel Gallagher, this is Major Savage."

The hand that had been reaching out to the other man drew back slightly as Gallagher confirmed, "Did you say Savage, General?"

"I certainly did," assured Britt, thoroughly enjoying the effect of his surprise.

"Pleased to meet you, Colonel," Savage said, quickly reaching out to shake the proffered hand. "Especially since I know this was the Group my cousin commanded before he was shot down."

"Yes, it was," Gallagher verified. "It was my privilege to serve under him."

As the two officers exchanged pleasantries, Britt quietly studied them. Though almost the same age, the war and his responsibilities had matured Gallagher, making him look ten years older, his short frame threatening to collapse under the pressure of his burden. In contrast, John Savage appeared almost carefree. Taller than the average fighter pilot, the Indian features were more prominent than they had been on his cousin. He had, however, inherited the same dark brooding facial structure that had characterized Frank Savage.

"You'll be in command of some fine pilots," Gallagher informed the major. "Don't be afraid to listen to their advice."

"Joe trained most of them himself," revealed Britt.

His lips curving into a polite smile, Savage said, "I'm sure I won't have any trouble."

"The hardest thing for new fighter pilots to learn," Gallagher pointedly emphasized, "is that their main responsibility is to protect the bombers, not acquire kills. The 511th has the lowest number of losses of any squadron."

"I look forward to leading such fine men into action."

The room felt as though the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Britt listened to the words and found no fault in the major's promise. Only in the deep voice was the dissembling detectable. In his attempt to raise morale, Britt now felt as though he'd just struck it a crippling blow. Savage hadn't flown one mission with his new squadron, yet Britt was already regretting the appointment. For once, he hoped his instincts were wrong.

 

The P-38's peeled off and headed back to their base to refuel. If the threatening weather held off for a few more hours, they'd return to escort the bombers on the final leg of their journey home -- those that survived.

Gallagher pressed the mike to his throat. "There go the 38's boys. Watch out for the 51's"

The words had barely echoed down the line when the fighters of the 614th Squadron appeared out of the clouds to take up their escort position. The pilots knew their job and had accepted their defensive role without hesitation. All Gallagher could do was hope the 511th would do the same when they rendezvoused with the group after the bomb run.

This was the third mission they had flown since Savage took command of the squadron. Gallagher's initial respect for the man and his legacy had diminished with each encounter. Despite repeated warnings, the major deliberately sought dog fights. This had left the bombers under his protection in jeopardy. So far they'd been lucky, but Gallagher knew it was only a matter of time before disaster struck.

General Britt had listened to his reports with an understanding sympathy. He'd even offered to reassign Savage to another squadron. Realizing that would bean a demotion, Gallagher had been reluctant to accept. Such a move could irreparably harm a promising career. Savage was a good pilot who needed direction. Gallagher shifted uncomfortably when he remembered he'd said the same about Troper.

"Left waist to pilot, bandits -- ten o'clock high."

Gallagher no longer had time to think or worry about anything but keeping his aircraft on course. Repeated attacks were repulsed by the fighters. Despite their skill, an FW-190 slipped through the outnumbered 51's. As usual, his target was the lead aircraft. Within a matter of minutes the number two engine had to be feathered and they lost hydraulics. Further damage was averted when concentrated bursts from the right waist and the turret gunners blew the fighter out of the sky.

"Ramrod to Blue Leader," Gallagher called, "we've lost an engine. Take the lead. I'm dropping to the back of the formation."

"Roger, Ramrod."

By the time Gallagher maneuvered through the crowded sky to his new position, they were turning on to the I.P. Flak exploded around the ship, but inflicted no further damage. Glancing over at his co-pilot, Gallagher saw sweat beading on the freckled brow, but the hands resting on the yoke were steady. Fry might have lost control once, he wouldn't again.

"Coming up on the target, Skipper," the bombardier announced.

"PDI is centered," Gallagher confirmed, dropping his hands. "She's all yours, Mike."

As soon as the plane surged upward, Gallagher reclaimed control. The target no longer a consideration, he could now concentrate on returning his damaged aircraft to its slot in the Purple Heart corner of the low squadron. The position was so named because the box formation afforded it the least amount of protection. With the advent of the P-51's, the chance of survival for these aircraft had more than doubled. "Be there, Major," Gallagher quietly pleaded, "be there."

Enemy fighters swooped down on the lead bombers as they emerged from the flak. Tracers streaked across the sky. It was a beautiful sight until its deadly purpose was brought home when a damaged B-17 fell out of formation and exploded.

Before the enemy guns could come to bear on another target, P51's dove into their midst diverting their firepower. Gallagher felt like cheering, until he saw the battle shifting and spreading to engulf the entire group. The _Lily_ shuddered as her guns joined the attack.

A 51 flew close to Gallagher's left wing intercepting, an FW-190. Instead of chasing the fighter away and returning to protect the group, he took off in pursuit.

Switching channels on his radio, Gallagher ordered, "51, break off your attack and return to formation." The command went unheeded.

"Bogie, ten o'clock high," Komansky warned. "He's headed right for us."

 

Britt sighed and closed the report. As usual, his instincts had been right. Though Gallagher hadn't spoken a word against Savage, the other group commanders hadn't been so considerate. Despite repeated reminders, the major continued to seek the glory of the dog fight, rather than the quiet satisfaction of protecting the bombers. So far his actions hadn't resulted in disaster for the simple reason the enemy hadn't take the advantage.

The situation obviously couldn't continue. While the more experienced pilots proceeded to do their job, the newer recruits would soon start to follow their commander's example. Instead of raising morale, Savage's attitude was causing confusion and doubt. He would have to be replaced -- and soon.

"Captain," Britt rose to face his aide, "have my car brought around. I'll be at Archbury if anyone's looking for me."

"Yes, sir." Rand saluted, before hastily reaching for the phone.

Laying his cane on top of his desk, Britt put on his hat and coat. Gallagher had been the first one he'd notified of Savage's appointment. He deserved to be the first one informed of the demotion. As Group Commander, he'd bear the inevitable backlash from the action.

 

Stovall studied the horizon with his binoculars. Empty sky greeted his seeking gaze. He let his eyes drop to his watch. In less than fifteen minutes the Lily would run out of fuel -- if she were still airborne. The rest of the group had returned almost a half hour before. The debriefing had verified that the Tally-Ho had gone down soon after leaving the flak bed. Four parachutes were counted. The last reported sighting of the Piccadilly Lily revealed two engines had been feathered and her radio silenced.

"There she is!"

His heart in his throat, Stovall returned the binoculars to his eyes and watched the B-17's slow approach. All activity on the field ceased as the ground support and air crews did the same. The wheels were jerkily lowered. It was obvious it had been done manually. "Easy does it, Joe," Harvey silently prayed. Though he hadn't been a religious man before the war, more often these days he'd found himself relying on the calming effect of his faith. He would never take it for granted again.

The aircraft bounced when its wheels hit the runway. Stovall's spirits dropped. To one who knew what to look for, it was obvious that Gallagher wasn't at the controls. His eyes followed the damaged plane as it roared down the runway.

Harvey left the tower in a daze. His gaze never wavering from the taxiing aircraft, he drove across the field. How many times had he made this journey under the glow of a red flare? How many times had it been Gallagher himself who'd been injured? The cockpit was a vulnerable location. The main target of every experienced enemy pilot.

Hands shaking so hard he could barely control them, Harvey braked and turned off the engine. He forced himself to clinically study the damaged aircraft as he climbed from the jeep. As estimate of when it could be returned to duty would be needed to complete his report.

His scrutiny ended as a familiar form was handed out the waist gunner's window to willing hands below. The torso was covered with blood. Harvey found this development strangely encouraging. Dead men didn't bleed.

Gallagher was gently laid on a stretcher, then covered with a blanket. From what Harvey could see the wounds matched those suffered by Blakely in Troper's attack. The young navigator had died. Yet Joe was still alive. What unknown equation decided that one man would live while the other died? Was it fate, or did it just take some men longer to die?

 

Britt didn't wait for his driver to open his door. Even before the car came to a full stop, he opened it himself. He limped as fast as he could into the offices of the 918th Bomb Group, only to find it empty. This discovery told him something was terribly wrong. 

Walking back outside, he shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun. The camp appeared deserted. The only activity was the repair crews crawling over the returned bombers. Slowly rounding the Quonset hut, he finally found the missing population. Clustered near the hospital, they stood or sat staring at the entrance.

Already knowing what he'd find, Britt crossed to the long squat building. His hand shook as it grabbed the door handle. He hesitated before finally pulling it open. He'd always know this day could come. Just as it had with Savage. He'd thought that being prepared would make it easier -- it hadn't.

At the end of the long corridor, he saw Stovall leaning dejectedly against the wall. Only Komansky's pacing gave him hope. He knew the sergeant well enough to know he wouldn't be standing outside an operating theatre if Gallagher was dead.

With renewed hope, he called, "Harvey?"

Eyes reluctantly turned at the greeting. As they focused on the tall figure, Stovall quickly came to attention. "General." The acknowledgment drew Komansky's notice. Though it was obviously painful, he raised his right hand to his brow.

"At ease," Britt ordered, impatiently returning the salute. "How bad is he?"

"He took two rounds in the chest, General," Stovall replied, slumping back against the wall.

The information made Brit flinch. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before reopening them. "What're his chances?"

"When you're talking about Joe Gallagher odds don't mean anything," said Harvey, proudly. "According to the Doc, he should be dead already."

A worried gaze resting on the doors to the operating room, Britt asked, "What happened?"

"Tell him, Sandy," Harvey gently urged.

Komansky stopped pacing, but didn't look up. "We got hit going in and lost the number two engine and the hydraulics. The colonel relinquished the lead and dropped back to the Purple Heart corner of the low squadron."

The description of the position made Britt wince. How prophetic it had been.

"Everything was all right for a while," Komansky continued in an emotionless tone. "We clobbered the target and made it through the flak with only some minor damage. Enemy fighters were waiting for us, but so was the 511th. An FW-190 came after us. Before it could fire, a 51 intercepted it." Komansky stopped to collect his thoughts. When he resumed there was anger in his voice. "Instead of returning to a position where he could protect us, the 51 took off after the bandit. It wasn't long after that when an ME-109 managed to evade our guns and shoot up the cockpit."

This time when Komansky stopped speaking it was simply because he couldn't continue. His emotional pain made him fight back the tears. His mouth was open, yet no words came out.

"Take your time," said Britt. Crossing to a water pitcher, he poured two glasses of the lukewarm liquid. He handed one to Komansky and the other to Stovall. "Proceed whenever you're ready, Sergeant."

Komansky emptied the paper cup before crumbling it in his hands. Though it was obviously an effort, he continued with his report. "Colonel Gallagher got shot in the chest. Lt. Fry took one in the left arm. After Mike and I got the Skipper into the radio room, I took the left seat. We'd lost number three engine and most of our instrumentation. The lieutenant got her back here on guts and skill."

Even as he asked the question, Britt knew the answer. "Why didn't he order a bail out?"

"The colonel wouldn't have survived," Komansky pointed out. "It was never an option."

Britt stared at the blood staining the sergeant's jacket and overalls -- another man's blood. "Do you know the identity of the 51 pilot who abandoned you?"

"No, sir," Komansky admitted, his fingers curling into a fist.

"It was me, General."

Throwing an arm in Komansky's path to prevent him from getting himself court-martialed, Britt turned to face the commander of the 511th Fighter Squadron. "Do you have an explanation, Major?"

"No, sir," admitted Savage, standing at attention. "No excuse, sir."

"That's not good enough, Mister," Britt snapped. "My best Group Commander is fighting for his life because you failed to do your job. I want to know why."

Indecision played across the normally unreadable face. Finally, Savage burst out, "My God, sir, everyone expects me to be a superhero. I'm not General Frank Savage, I'm just a fighter pilot. Everyone thinks I'm like my cousin; I just can't live up to their expectations."

Though he was loath to accept it, Britt knew the accusation was true. He'd wanted a miracle to raise the Group's morale. Instead, he might have inflicted irreparable damage.

"I decided to fly a fighter hoping to minimize the comparison." Savage mirthlessly laughed. "The funny thing is I barely knew Frank. The men in this group probably knew him better than I did."

"That doesn't pardon your actions," Komansky angrily condemned, before tacking on a hasty, "sir."

"No, it doesn't," Savage unhesitatingly agreed. "I wanted to be an ace to take the pressure off. I realize now what a risk that was. I never thought anyone else might get hurt. I suppose I was just showing off, but it seemed like that was what people wanted."

Realizing he was as much to blame for what had happened as the young pilot, Britt leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn't know what to do, or say. He was the one guilty of misjudging Savage, however, Joe Gallagher had paid the price.

The operating room doors swung open, momentarily distracting him from his problem. A stretcher was pushed out. On it was a pale figure, a mere shadow of the vital man who'd commanded the 918th Bomb Group. Bandages covered his chest, while tubes ran from his arms to glass bottles held high in the air by a grim-faced nurse.

Sweat beading his brow, Kaiser pulled off his mask as he followed the stretcher through the doors. The gown he wore was stained with blood.

"What're the Skipper's chances?" Komansky demanded, forgetting he was addressing a senior officer.

Unoffended, Kaiser gently replied, "It doesn't look good. One of the bullets lodged near the heart. The other punctured a lung. I've done all I can. The rest is up to Joe."

"If stubbornness can keep a man alive," Britt said, "then we've got nothing to worry about."

 

A fire burned in his chest. He'd never experienced such pain. Every breath felt like a knife piercing his lung. Though fearful the effort would result in more pain, he forced his eyes open. A hand gently touched his shoulder.

"Easy, Joe."

Relieved at the sound of Dr. Kaiser's familiar voice, Gallagher's gaze shifted until it rested on the worried face. It cost him dearly to communicate his distress. "H . . . urts."

"I know." Kaiser laid a wet cloth against his patient's dry lips. "Nurse Henderson is getting you something for the pain. We weren't expecting you to regain consciousness so soon. Though Lord knows, I should've."

Licking the moisture from his lips, Joe asked, "Am. . . I . . . dying?"

"It was touch and go for a while," admitted Kaiser, "but you should make a full recovery."

"My . . . group?

"Is in the competent hands of your ground exec," Kaiser assured him. "General Britt has already given Harvey temporary command until you return. That is if you want to return? If anyone deserves a disability discharge it's you."

"Want my . . . group."

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that." Kaiser unhappily shook his head. "If that's what you want, you're going to have to follow my orders for a change, Colonel." Taking the hypo Henderson handed him, he expertly injected the contents into his patient's arm. "My first order is to get some sleep. Not that I've given you any choice."

Joe's eyelids drooped as his pain diminished. He didn't mind what he knew would be a long and painful road ahead. As long as he retained command of his group, nothing else mattered.

 

Harvey slowly sipped his drink and relaxed into the soft cushions of the overstuffed chair. A fire burned in the small stove in front of him. He watched, mesmerized by the licking flames, ignoring the celebration that had started when Dr. Kaiser upgraded Gallagher's condition to stable. Though as relieved as the other officers, Harvey had deliberately chosen the isolated corner to enjoy his scotch. He needed time and distance to rebuild the wall that had started to crumble when Joe had been injured. Without a safety net, he knew he couldn't continue to do his job.

"Mind if I join you?"

About to pull rank and order the interloper away, Stovall raised his head to lock gazes with General Britt. Quickly adjusting his demeanor, he invited, "Have a seat, Ed."

Easing himself into the other chair, Britt ordered a drink from the enlisted man hovering at his elbow. Turning his attention to Stovall, he waved a hand to indicate the excited officers. "I see I'm not the only one who feels like celebrating tonight."

"It's a good thing we're standing down tomorrow," Harvey agreed, smiling indulgently.

"I stopped by to see Joe," said Britt, absently taping his artificial leg with his cane. "He's still in a lot of pain."

"Doc says it'll be a while before he can breathe without it hurting."

A comfortable silence settled between the two old friends as they stared into the fire. They'd both come uncomfortably close to losing someone very important to them. For a while, anyway, they could stop worrying about Joe Gallagher -- at least until he was well enough to fly again.

"Komansky should be here," Britt softly commented, nodding his gratitude as the corporal delivered his drink.

"There's another party going on at the NCO club."

"I doubt very much that I'd find the sergeant there if I went looking for him."

"I know you wouldn't," Stovall quietly acknowledged. "Sandy has his own way of celebrating."

Taking a deep breath, Britt said, "I want to give Savage another chance."

"I thought you might."

"My decision doesn't bother you?"

"Should it?"

"He almost got Joe killed."

"The major seems to be ready to settle down," Stovall thoughtfully reflected. "It scared him when Joe got hurt. I think he deserves to prove himself on his own merits, now that we've recognized he's not Frank. They have the same build and appearance, but they aren't the same person."

Britt took a sip of his drink. "How do you think Joe will feel?"

Returning his gaze to the fire, Stovall contemplated his answer. He wanted to be honest, and not just because he was answering a superior's question. It wasn't easy to walk in another man's shoes, especially when that man was Joseph A. Gallagher. "He'll agree. After all, he knows what it's like to try to live up to someone else's expectations. Being the son of General Max Gallagher has made things more difficult for him, not easier as others like to believe."

"This whole business was my fault," Britt unhappily confessed. "After the incident with Troper, I was worried about morale. I pushed too hard, too fast."

"What's that old saying? Don't judge a book by its cover."

"From now on," Britt vowed, "I'm not even going to look at the cover."


End file.
